Your Own Statement.

This
story was originally a creative writing given by our literature
teacher. There were several prompts to choose from, and the one I
chose and used here was something like "Tell one time when
something bad turned out to be good in the end". It wasn't
graded, but the topic I settled on really meant a lot to me and I put
all my will into it. The main character could of been me, but they
are not, as I don't think quitethat
particular way... The feelings are genuine though, and I would be
delighted if it did manage to touch the reader's heart.

You
know you would
rather not have come. You know they never mean harm - they meant for
it to be pause, some kind of rest. That's what they say it's going to
be, but you know you never expected it to make a difference.

It's nice visiting
family - an aunt, in this case - but a week-long stay is too much.
Because from the start you knew you would only see her at meals, and
then shut yourself up in your room for no other reason than to hide
the fact you don't have anything to tell her, besides the essential
"What a nice meal!" and "So how is it going?"

A statement and a
question. Then there's the same inquiery you address yourself that is
burning you lips and mind, the only thing you truely want to ask her:
"What are you doing here?"
Because, concretely,
what is there here? Besides old furniture crammed with old belongings
in an old house... You don't understand how she can keep looking
back. You are scared being in her house will make you this way too -
crammed with old and useless memories - while you try looking
forward, not back.
Because, if you turn
back, you'll blame it on her - even if you know it is wrong, and
unfair, too - because you need someone to blame besides yourself.
Someone to blame for your downfall.

You know there's something
wrong with you - you don't even try thinking otherwise. You pretend
to be trying to do something about it, but you know it's useless
trying when you don't believe in what you're doing.
Everything you do is
useless without hope.
And how can you get
brand-new hope? Where would hope grow, if it were a plant? You laugh
at the thought. You're using metaphors now - like if you were in some
sort of tragedy! You go on giggling stupidly. In books, and plays,
and movies, the sad character stands up for himself, saying something
like: "As long as there's life there's always hope!". Or,
if really he has completly given up, then somebody comes to help - a
friend, a lover, some random stranger - and says something that
changes everything.
But you know you've
given up the idea of helping yourself, and you know nobody will come
to help you. People are all around, and they see you and talk to you,
but you know they don't notice. You leave clues - but they don't see
them, and you are left to mourn over your state and blame them for
still not noticing.
And even if they did
notice and asked: "What's wrong?" - the most enfuriating
sentence! - you know you wouldn't be able to explain, because you
don't understand it yourself.
And even if they tried
doing something about it, you know it wouldn't work; you long for
their help, but your pride keeps you from accepting it. You want them
to insist, and to do all the work for you using some sort of amazing
magic trick you know they can't do.

This room certainly
isn't part of the magic trick you are awaiting.

You look around and sigh
to add some dramatic effect. You know you didn't need to look again
to know it is 'crammed with old furniture'. Besides, you practically
knew it would look like this even before you stepped in and saw it
for the first time. After all, it's the same in every single room of
this house... besides the bathroom, maybe.
You wonder over it.
You want to go check. Or maybe you don't. You don't care, actually.
What to do, now, then? You have a room, might as well make it your
own. You put your bag down, you open it. You hesitate at what to pull
out. In the end you take out your phone, its charger and plug it in
the wall. Then the book you are supposed to be reading. You drop it
on the bedside table. Then your pencil case. That goes on the desk.
Your clothes... Nope, leave them in the bag. Your soap, no use
putting it in shower now. You stay a whole thirty seconds bent over
your backpack, staring at the piece of soap in your hand, wrapped in
a plastic film like a sandwich, before putting it back.
You don't know where
to go. You walk up to the window and close it. It was letting in the
cold night air - yup, that's a good excuse. Now what? You walk up to
the door. You reach for the handle, hesitate and let your hand fall
back down. You walk around a bit, and then sit on the bed. You look
at your bag, the desk, the window, the door, the bedside table. You
take the book in both hands. The cover is a bit torn at the bottom
left corner and its colors are faded. You turn it over, read the
summary. But you know it's useless, you're already through half the
pages. You open it to start from where you left off. You read:
"First he picked
out a... been... had been... plenty warm, but... and packed... spring
roll!"
You purposefully added
a word. You haven't understood the sentence anyways. You try reading
it over. You end up adding "parking lot", "glue
stick", "charming" and "sorrowful" to the
paragraph before you get bored of the game.
You close the book and
put it back down on the bedside table. You adjust it with your middle
finger and thumb so its edges are parallel to the table's. You lie
back on the bed.
You let your mind
drift. This house reminds you of a story from when you were small.
Old and dark, and covered in dust, with a spider web in every corner.
You correct yourself; this house is well-kept, there is no dust and
few spider webs. The story was about this girl called Mary that moved
into this creepy house. For a few days all was well, until she
discovers a ghost is stealing her socks.

Told this way, it
does sound very silly - like all children's stories you reckon - but
it was told in such a creepy way by your big cousin that you were
holding your breath till the end. During years, you longed for a
sequel; but when you looked it up on internet in fifth grade you
learnt there was none.
You think it would be
fun if she moved in with this guy who would actually be a werewolf,
and that would love... hairpins. He would hide them under the
floorboards.
Sounds silly enough to
be a sequel. And since you don't have anything better to do... Since
the thought occured to you, it might as well make itself useful. You
stand up, and after a moment hesitating you sit at the desk. You open
your pencil case and shuffle through it, and put your pen down
gingerly on the table-top.
At first you don't
understand why you've stopped; but of course you can't write without
anything to write on. So you stand up again and pull out blank sheets
of paper, that you lay down in front of you as you sit down
again.
Now, the writing. What
to write? Where to start? You think about it a few moments. What is
the most logical thing to start a story with? You stand up again, and
this time walk over to the bedside table. The first paragraph of the
book starts by a verb-less sentence. Then there's a description of
the setting. And then what people think about the place, and what
it's actually like from a more objective point of view.
As long as you know,
this is a very typical start for a novel. But you see no point in
making things harder. It's not like this was a graded creative
writing. And even if it was, the easiest is the safest when it comes
to schoolwork.
So then, the setting.
What is the setting? Not the old house already, she needs to get
there first... Books are often like that. Either you get thrown
directly into the plot or you get some context first. It's what
you've learnt in class, and up to this day you've had no reason to
question it.
Before Mary got
settled in the house, where was she? You do believe you might want to
use your own arrival as an example. You would also rather describe
her in a good mood, so that the change in atmosphere stands
out.
Everything is about
contrast.

Missed. When you got out
of the train it was pouring. That certainly did not help with your
mood.
Ugh, whatever.
Everything is about
foreshadowing.
When you got to the
house itself - after about half an hour of bus riding - the sun was
blinding both you and the conductor.
...Just ignore the
rules. Write the story.
The setting is a train
station on a rainy day. First try. "Rain was pouring over the
trainstation." No. You scribble over it. What did the book start
with, again? A verb-less sentence? "The greyish train station."
Even better: "The rain."
You really have to
stop fooling around.
Besides, the word
"greyish" doesn't sound like it would belong in a first
sentence. Maybe giving the Time first instead of the Place would
work... "The story I am about to tell you" - that's already
such a bad start - "happened One Foggy Christmas Eve." This
is so ridiculous, thank goodness you didn't write it down. This is
what happens when you get a song stuck in your head for two weeks
straight.
Stop. Fooling.
Around!
"It was a grey
and rainy day." That'll have to do. You can't help feeling
pround, and it makes you smile.
"It was a grey
and rainy day."
Your own statement.

--=:O:=--

You read over the last
sentence you wrote. This ended up being much darker than the story it
was originally inspired from. Deeper, too, in some way.
You feel worn out.
Your look at your
watch.
You need a few seconds
to remember at about what time you started this. One o'clock. Then a
few more seconds to decipher the numbers and make the substraction.
Now it is... four o'clock. This makes...

Your aunt calls
from the first floor. Several seconds to register what she has
said.

Something about snack
time?

You feel like if you
were awakening from a dream. You stand up, and twist the old door
handle. No, wait. You must of walked across the room in between. In
between... standing up and twisting the handle. That's right.
Well, this reasoning
must be very complicated for you to have walked down the staircase
without noticing.
As you step into the
kitchen you come face to face with you aunt. She say she thought you
hadn't heard, since you didn't answer, so she was coming to check on
you, and by the way what are these papers you are holding?
Oh. You hadn't noticed
you'd brought them. You hold them up to eye level. You've never seen
so much of your own handwriting before. You stare at the pages, who
seem to be getting heavier every second.

You answer
something like: "Writing." And then you ask about the
FOOD.

Now she must believe
you're extreamly hungry. Because as much as you try keeping a strait
face, a smile is tugging as the corners of your mouth - a smile of
something that very much feels like pride.

~End~

I
was born in France and
grew up there, apart from the few years I spent in South Africa and
later in the US. As a result for moving a lot one of the few things
that never completly changed were my books. Additionally I have
always been a dreamer, daydreaming taking up most of my free time -
whether I was drawing, hide-and-seeking or just doing nothing.

I
started writing my first
story when I was eight, but I didn't have in mind to become an author
at all. In fact, the idea actually came along with my dream of
becoming a mangaka, which I got at fourteen years old, and I always
think of both as impossible to separate, as they are too different to
make up for each other.

Recently
I have been
starting to go to writing websites, and hope for it to help motivate
me into writing more.